Alex Ames - Calendar Moonstone 02 - Brilliant Actors (22 page)

“From your description of him, he sounds like a cocky bastard. Very self-assured and close to arrogant. A successful jewel thief, just did plenty of movie stars and didn’t get caught, even when the police closed in on him.” Mick summed it up.

“That is correct, but will that help us?”

“It means that he wouldn’t live in one of the lesser quarters more to the south. Like down here, San Pedro or Del Rey. Or even close to downtown. I bet he has a nice apartment or small house that somehow reflects his status. I mean, he has to live for something if not the sweet life. Even if it is just temporarily. So, we are looking at the better areas, like close to the coast—Venice Beach, Santa Monica, Pacific Palisades, the Hills. He wouldn’t go for less.”

After an hour of discussions, we had made a dozen strategic crosses in all different areas of town. All the junctions, streets, and locations would be watched by one of Bernie’s guys from noon to 7:00 P.M., the time a person is most likely to go out to shop, lunch, dine, or wine. After 7:00, darkness set in, and spotting became more difficult. We’d even discussed his wheels, and when I told them that during the Redondo Beach stakeout he had driven a nondescript Datsun, Mick and Bernie had said in unison, “Convertible!”

“Why a convertible?” I asked.

Mick said, “Fits his self-image as a successful thief with a double life. For stakeouts and his plain Joe identity, he uses a rundown car that fits his supposedly low income. But I bet you your jewels that in real life he drives a German sports car. Nothing too flashy like a Ferrari to make people look twice, but maybe like an older Porsche model, a BMW Z-model, or a Merc SLK. The toys of successful professionals in LA.”

In the course of the discussion, the other guys had participated, too, and all in all I had developed a good feeling that my crazy plan would work.
 

“How long will we have to do it?” the Mountain asked, a Hagrid-style giant with an extra sized bike of impressive dimensions. Did I mention rugged, rough, and bearded?

“I have about twenty-something days left to prove my innocence. Let’s give it a few days, okay? Then we can decide how we go will on.”

Bernie said, “Unfortunately, the weekend is over. People tend to go out a little more often on weekends, and moving people is our chance to catch him. But let’s see how it will turn out.”

After last-minute logistics and communication issues, I left them and drove home again. I had to shower before going to bed with beer and cigarette smell in my clothes and hair. I slept with some strange dreams somewhere between Henry and the jewels.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Mouse And Cat

Monday noon, Operation Rip-Spotting was rolling into action. Around 1:00 P.M., Mick called and told me the guys were on the lookout. Luckily, the weather was perfect—agreeable temperatures, no rain or excessive sun.

Not so nice was a phone call I received from Fowler, who felt that he had been left out of the loop.

“What are you working on? I have no clue what you are doing, and if I have my say, I think you are preparing the next heist,” he whined through the line.

“Fowler, could you calm down, please? I am preparing my next heist. You’re right,” I answered, annoyed.

A short hesitation. “You are?”

“Yes. Not the heist you are thinking of, but a great way of catching Mr. Delaware.” I gave Fowler Wynn a short update on the operation.

“I’ll have to drive past a few of those spots in order to believe it myself,” he muttered. “Have it your way.”

“Fowler, this is my neck, so it is my plan. Shut up and wait for the results. Don’t you have other insurance swindlers to catch or other suspects to drill? And make sure that my own insurance check gets processed!”

He hung up rather forcefully.

Sometimes it is nice to have friends in high places. And it’s even nicer to have friends who do things for you without asking questions. My foundation buddy Margaret Peters, wife of my esteemed lawyer Terrence, had invited Mundy and me to a party at their house in the Pacific Palisades after I cued and coached her a bit to include me.
 

“This is not our usual foundation group, so I hope you won’t be bored.”

“No, it’s fine, Margaret,” I answered her when we were talking logistics over the phone the day before.

She shouted into the background over her shoulder. “Terrence, are you okay with your favorite almost-convict roaming around with your celebrity clients and friends?”

“I’ll tell them to leave the jewelry at home and not to shake her hand,” he replied somewhere in the background.

Margaret came back to me. “So, you heard … you are in, my dear. Come casual.”

Casual
for a girl like me means a quick trip to the hair dresser and dipping into the tub for a shave and a peel. I was running a little late when I picked up Mundy from his home and we rode up 405. Terrence Peters was my lawyer, but at the same time I was involved in Children Unreserved, a foundation managed by Margaret to support children’s interests in a globally non-caring world. Terrence and Margaret Peters had been married for almost forty years and used their power-couple status in the Hollywood community to bring together film stars and common business people. Where other foundation managers sold seats at the table, Margaret preferred to convince her sponsors and donors in a much simpler way. She offered them a great, uncomplicated evening and then let them decide for themselves when and how much to give.
 

“Calendar, so good to see you,” Terrence said warmly and held my hands when we stepped onto the patio overlooking LA and part of the ocean. He apparently had had some drinks already. “Hope you guys enjoy yourself tonight.” Always the good lawyer, he didn’t mention my troubles in front of Margaret, although Margaret had to know by now—she was the premier tidbit exchange of South Bay.
 

“Just ignore me, little ones, and discuss the state of the investigation. I am merely thin air,” she said, winked at me, and flew away to take care of guests, catering, and the rest of the evening. I noticed one actor couple sitting on a sofa, talking quietly with three people I had never seen. Bob Beaufort, the country singer past his prime, was tinkling away on the piano in the living room, very casual, very relaxed.

Terrence asked me quietly about the case. I gave him a quick summary of my interviews with the movie industry suspects, omitting the unofficial parts, of course.

“I don’t know where this is leading,” Terrence said gruffly. “The police seem to have their hands in their laps, not doing anything. They should try to find that Rip Delaware guy and not wait for you to do it.”

Margaret walked by and chirped in, though it was impossible that she could have heard us. “Little one, those movie people all sound like suspects to me. But check out Swan Collins, too. I wouldn’t put it past her to remove her own precious star diamonds in order to cash in on the insurance.”

Terrence looked left and right, worried that libelous remarks were being overheard by his lawyer friends.
 

I asked, “But why would she? She is Swan Collins, after all, and the diamonds are a piece of her heritage.”

“Did she appear distraught or close to tears when you talked to her?” Maggie asked. “From what I heard, she is in serious trouble over her property deals. Some extra millions may come in handy.”

“Can you confirm her troubles?” I asked her, just to be sure.

“Of course, my bridge partner Rene Richardson has heard it from the developer himself. They have their anchors side by side in Marina Del Rey.” Maggie delivered that fact casually. “And a good friend of mine who sleeps with a Veep from Palsey Investment Partners happens to know the net value of Swan’s portfolio, and I tell you it isn’t what you expect it to be for a movie star of her past successes. ‘More holes than a bucket after a round of buckshot.’ That’s what she supposedly said!”

“Any other dirt that might help me get out of my spot?” I asked hopefully, but Maggie shook her head.

“I am not gossiping, just the facts, my little one.” As always, Maggie was without irony. “Oh, good evening, Commissioner Webber, so good to see you!” She had turned to the next arrivals.

As casually as possible, I walked away, gave Terrence a little wave, and after a few yards made a casual search for Mundy and was able to muster Commissioner Webber. He was a large man with black oily hair, a growing belly under a very expensive suit, and an attractive lady at his side—his third wife or so, Fowler’s background briefing had revealed. He radiated power and was not for nothing the Commissioner of Police of the second largest city in the US. Unfortunately he was a clever one as well. Like many policemen, he had the gift of feeling watched, and after shaking Maggie’s hand and passing the small talk over to his wife, he quickly looked up and scanned the room for the pair of eyes that turned out to be mine. Our eyes met for a second until I luckily managed to see Mundy approaching and gave a short wave out of pure desperation. The only thing I didn’t need tonight was the Commissioner’s statement to the police after I had broken into his apartment. The last thing I needed was for him to tell them that he had felt that a blonde California surfer girl had watched him at a party.
 

Mundy came over, at his side a good-looking guy who reminded me of that serious reporter from the
Doonesbury
cartoon, sporting a carefully groomed short red beard and a prominent nose.
 

“Let me guess,” I noted before either of them were able to speak, “a reporter?”

Mundy rolled his eyes, and the red-bearded guy laughed. “How could you have guessed? Johnson Rollins,
InMovie
editor and business insider at your service.”

Mundy said, “I thought you would be interested in his views on your little group of suspects.”

I gave Mundy a sharp look. “You didn’t tell him…?”

Johnson held up his hands and said easily, “Don’t worry, he told me that you are currently investigating the missing Collins’ diamonds because you are an expert on modern jewelry. That’s all; Mundy told me nothing more.”

“As long as I don’t appear on page one of your sheet tomorrow,” I said dryly.
 

Mundy broke in, “Don’t worry, Jay is okay. He knows probably as much as your friend Maggie about Hollywood and LA-LA Land society structures.”

“No strings attached,” Johnson said. “Just ask your questions, and I will answer. I owe Mundy anyway.” Another story to be told.
 

Mundy fetched us a new set of drinks, and we found ourselves an unoccupied room to talk.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The Webber Job

Mundy and I arrived back at his apartment around midnight. We made a little noise, clapping the doors loudly and banging the trunk close to retrieve our coats. Hopefully we were noticed, all in the name of a good alibi.
 

In Mundy’s apartment, we discussed last-minute tactics, and after a few minutes of apartment darkness, I left through the fire door in the back alley and made my way into the good night. I picked up my false name rental from around the block and drove to downtown LA, where Commissioner Webber had his high-rise apartment. He was known to be a party animal, never left a reception or bash before three o’clock. The delivery door of the high rise had a comparatively easy lock to pick, and the alarm system deactivation code was 33459. It was good to have all that information delivered by professional sources, and I briefly wondered if Fowler was having bad dreams about this—handing out his highly positioned clients’ information to a crook.

I parked two blocks away on a parking meter in a line of other cars, checked that parking actually was for free at this hour, and walked briskly toward the address. There were only a few people on the streets, some tourists ready to be mugged, some late night outs, and here and there a police cruiser making its rounds.

I reached the high rise and walked around the corner, past some shops that occupied the ground floor of the complex, until I saw the side entrance door. I pulled my baseball cap deeper over my face, stepped forward, and got out my automatic lock picker. The tumbler did its job in about twenty seconds, not extraordinarily long but longer than opening the door with a key. I simply hoped that the night receptionist hadn’t noticed.